


in a way I will not speak

by lady_krysis (saekhwa)



Category: Shame (2011) RPF
Genre: Canon Character of Color, Character of Color, Comment Fic, Dom/sub, Humiliation, Interracial Relationship, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Male Character of Color, POV Male Character, Porn Battle, Prompt Fic, Rare Pairing, Sexual Fantasy, Submission, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-13
Updated: 2012-02-13
Packaged: 2017-10-31 01:48:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/338542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saekhwa/pseuds/lady_krysis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael's not sure what spurs his next thought, but he simply can't figure out why Steve won't touch him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in a way I will not speak

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mumblemutter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/gifts).



> Written for Porn Battle XIII (Lucky Thirteen) and [posted on the Dreamwidth entry as well](http://oxoniensis.dreamwidth.org/46205.html?thread=7570813&style=mine#cmt7570813). Also written for [](http://mumblemutter.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**mumblemutter**](http://mumblemutter.dreamwidth.org/) , because they're the entire reason I'm even writing this pairing. They're amazing, and I love them a lot.

The shaft of light that's been stretching across the studio floor now beats hard on Michael's back. It's uncomfortably hot, but Michael stays on his knees, remaining exactly where Steve put him with no more than a mild, "Here," and a hand on Michael's shoulder.

Michael's not sure what spurs his next thought, but he simply can't figure out why Steve won't touch him. Why Steve won't _fuck him_. 

There's nothing shameful about thinking it, but it still makes Michael lower his eyes and hold his knees a little more tightly than necessary if he expects to maintain this position for another hour. 

It's nice, of course, that with Steve, Michael is more than his appearance, more than tabloid curiosity about the size of his cock or how gentle he is with his colleagues. The only performance Steve expects of Michael is when he has Michael positioned behind a camera.

Michael feels selfish and ungrateful for wanting _more_. 

The more he thinks about it, though — and it seems to be all that occupies his mind when he's placed on the floor like this — the more he wants Steve to position him somewhere else. Over a desk, on the floor on his hands and knees, in the corner with his nose pressed as firmly to the wall as his hands would be. Michael would moan, begging and pleading so loudly that he'd have to strain to hear Steve's soft-spoken _good boy_. 

Michael imagines Steve's broad fingers pushing into his arse, preparing Michael for the stretch of his cock. 

Michael suddenly realises he's never seen Steve naked, and a dozen images begin playing through his mind as he stares ahead, almost painfully aware of Steve sitting just out of sight to his left. Michael licks his lips and wonders—

He wonders how much he'd have to work for Steve's cock. He wonders if he'd choke on its length, if the girth of it would make his jaw ache after a while. He wonders if he'd even have the ability to make Steve come at all. 

Maybe, Michael thinks, swallowing around the lump that's formed in his throat. Maybe he'd be a miserable failure at sucking Steve to orgasm. 

Michael's tongue suddenly feels as useless as it does in his fantasy, too thick and heavy, glued to the bottom of his mouth. He'd try so hard to work his tongue against Steve's shaft, struggle to make Steve's knees weak with the pleasure beating at Michael's temples right now. 

The blood rush goes straight to Michael's cock. It pushes against the zip of his trousers, the pressure nearly causing him to give himself away with a moan. He wants to touch himself but doesn't know if he can, if he's _allowed_ when he and Steve have never come close to discussing it. Michael's never had the urge before. He usually slips quietly into his own head and drifts until Steve, voice patient and warm and too enticing to ignore, guides him back. 

Michael can't slip when his breath burns in his nostrils with each inhale. He stares at Steve and wants Steve to touch him, to tell him that it's all right that Michael can't take his cock, that— 

That Michael can still be a good boy for him. 

Then Steve would instruct him with the same confident assurance that he has on set. He'd tell Michael to breathe, relax his throat, all while petting Michael's hair, waiting for Michael to comply. When Michael did— 

When he did, Steve would—

Michael takes another hard breath, struggling as he would if Steve's cock were in his mouth right now. The pace would be rough — it would have to be so Michael wouldn't be able to think or do any more than keep his jaw opened as wide as possible and try not to gag around the head of Steve's cock every time it hit the back of his throat. 

The more Michael thinks about it, the more he can almost feel it. He uses his own tongue as a poor replacement, rubbing it against the roof of his mouth, back and forth and back and forth, trying to be _so good_ —

"Michael," Steve says.

Michael's breath catches, and he doesn't dare open his eyes, flushed as he is with shame, embarrassment, _arousal_ , the dull thud of his heart pounding so hard that he can feel it in his throat. 

He can hear Steve move about the room, but he can't possibly anticipate the shudder that rolls through him when Steve's fingers curl firm and warm around his shoulder. 

That touch moves so seamlessly into Michael's fantasy, Steve's hand forcing Michael forward, even though it's Steve's hand keeping him in place right now.

"Michael, are you all right?"

Michael answers with a soft, pained sound, shaking with the strain of keeping absolutely still. 

"Look at me."

He wants to, but he can't. He absolutely cannot look at Steve while he's thinking about Steve thrusting his cock into Michael's mouth, making Michael choke on it. 

Steve grasps Michael's chin, tilts his head up, and says it again, says, "Michael."

Michael opens his eyes, and he can't hide how painfully erect he is in his trousers or hide how hot his cheeks feel from the humiliation of his own fantasies. Steve searches Michael's face, and Michael moans, averting his eyes only for the pressure of Steve's fingers on his chin to bring his gaze back up. 

"What's got you so flushed?" Steve asks. 

"You," Michael manages to choke past the lump in his throat, and shuts his eyes again, returns directly to the fantasy, to Steve coming on his face, because he hadn't been good enough to earn the right to swallow.

"Tell me."

Michael shakes his head, arms locked with such single-minded determination that he begins to tremble. The pressure on his cock is unbearable, and he barely catches what Steve says next when Steve's fingers slip through his hair, petting over his skull from top to base and back again. 

"Show me."

That— Michael releases the breath that he's been holding. Show seems so much easier than _tell_. All he has to do is take direction as if this were any other scene, the cameras all around them filming Steve's perfect shot. 

So Michael keeps his eyes shut — he doesn't have to open them to know where Steve is — and leans forward, opening his mouth around Steve's groin. He licks the rough, dry fabric of Steve's trousers, the teeth of the zip leaving a sharp tang on Michael's tongue. 

"Please," he says when Steve's hand tightens around his shoulder, too push him away, to drag him closer. 

Michael isn't sure and can't stop moaning at all the possibilities. He pushes against Steve's grip and licks and mouths the bulge of Steve's cock again, hoping he can prove how good he is — how good _he'll be_ — so next time, perhaps, Steve will let Michael pull down his trousers, take Steve into his mouth, and suck him erect. 

"Is this what you want?" Steve asks, his thumb stroking up the line of Michael's jaw, sending a shiver down Michael's spine. 

Michael answers with another moan, ignoring the heat flooding his cheeks the same way he'd ignored the sun beating hard on his back all afternoon. 

"Answer me."

"Touch me." Michael swallows down the quiet desperation of his request and rubs his cheek against Steve's trousers, licking Steve's bulge and sucking as much of it into his mouth as he can. "Please."

Steve's so quiet, and Michael hadn't imagined he'd be a miserable failure at _this_ , at simply _convincing_ Steve. Michael's pleading dissolves into a choked whimper, a shudder breaking the posture that he's always perfectly maintained. 

He falls quiet when Steve presses two fingers to his lips, says, "Shhh. Let me get to a chair, then we'll give it a try, all right?"

Michael nods and keeps nodding, keeps nuzzling Steve's cock, crossing the room on his hands and knees chasing after it. His gaze is riveted on the vee of Steve's legs when Steve reaches into his trousers and finally pulls his cock free. 

Michael licks his lips and stares, glancing at Steve's face before he crawls between Steve's legs. Steve's laugh is soft, draws Michael's attention back to his face. He caresses Michael's cheek, thumb skimming across Michael's lips, and Michael, eager to prove himself, licks the pad of Steve's thumb, wrapping his mouth around it before Steve can take it away. 

"Yes, I know," Steve says, and smiles. 

The sight of it makes Michael's heart thrum, and he keeps his hands firmly curled around his knees, using only his mouth. He sucks harder, fluttering his tongue, offering Steve a light scrape of his teeth, because he wants to earn that smile again and again. He's not going to fail (Steve, himself). He's going to make Steve come, and Steve will look at him, as patient and affectionate as he is now, and he'll say, "You're such a good boy, Michael," and come in Michael's mouth.


End file.
